


Salto Ergo Sum

by Papillon87



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Finally I'm writing AU set in London!, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Past binu, Prompt #16 from Astro Fanfic Fest 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillon87/pseuds/Papillon87
Summary: 'What do you do?'Bin gulps down some water and rests his head against the wall. ‘I’m a dancer.’‘Oh,’ the black eyes sparkle with interest. ‘What kind of dance? Hip-hop?’‘No,’ he ducks his head a little with an embarrassed smile. ‘Ballet.’
Relationships: Moon Bin/Park Minhyuk | Rocky
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39
Collections: Astro FicFest 2020





	Salto Ergo Sum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Existential_forest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Existential_forest/gifts).



> I hope René Descartes forgives me for stealing his most famous quote and butchering it ;-)))))
> 
> ......................

The hot air hits Bin in the face like a wall.

Outwardly his brisk pace remains unchanged, belying how faint he suddenly feels, how he longs to lean against the wall – just for a second – and wait for the queasiness to subside.

He should have eaten after the rehearsal.

There are only two seasons in the spider web of the London Underground. The awful one when masses of tightly packed bodies in coats, jackets and smart suits make one sweat, even if the morning air is crisp outside; and the horrendous one, when for a week or two in May the summer arrives and the temperatures soar, turning the streets of the capital into a baking oven and the Tube into a deadly trap.

Today falls firmly into the latter category.

And yet here there was, barely a minute ago, not minding the heat radiating off the cobblestones of Covent Garden, the hoards of tourists milling around in the scorching sun and getting in the way like aimless ants. He even smiled at a busker standing by the Tube entrance, and dropped a couple of coins in his guitar case.

The moment Bin joins the tightly packed queue inside, however, the stale, suffocating air and his exhaustion combine with a deadly force and he stumbles, light-headed, earning himself a concerned look from the Tube warden.

‘Are you alright there, sir?’

The queue behind him grows restless. People are waiting for him to scan his card to open the barrier, to keep the steady flow of commuters and tourists going – but he can't move. With clammy hands, he leans against the warm metal, gripping its smooth surface to steady himself.

‘Sir?’

Her neon vest blinds his sight for a moment as she grips his elbow, calm but firm.

‘Could you step aside for a moment, sir?’

_She probably thinks I’m drunk._

The thought almost makes him laugh.

The woman’s face is smooth, not betraying any emotions, as she takes him aside and lets him lean against the wall. Even the tiles pressing into the soaked fabric of his tank top are warm.

‘Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?’

He blinks, trying to focus. ‘I am sorry. I didn’t have any lunch at work today, and the heat… I am an idiot. I guess I’m just hungry, that’s all. I’m really sorry.’

Something in her eyes softens. ‘I can bring you a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

She jerks her head toward the ticket booth. ‘Just made myself one but didn’t have time to drink it.’

‘It’s alright.’ By now, the mortification is hitting Bin full force and he quickly pulls a water bottle out of his bag. ‘I just need some water and then I will be on my way. It was a long day at work,’ he shrugs helplessly, trying his best to smile.

‘What do you do?’

If this was a nightclub, the question might be classified as flirting, despite him being maybe a twenty years younger. Here, the woman’s protective stance and kind eyes only remind Bin of his mother, even if the warden looks nothing like her. Bin knows the Underground employees are busy and don’t have time for too much banter with commuters; he knows she is only talking to him to make sure he doesn’t faint and causes chaos on her watch. The gesture still feels nice though.

He gulps down some water and rests his head against the wall. ‘I’m a dancer.’

‘Oh,’ the black eyes sparkle with interest. ‘What kind of dance? Hip-hop?’

‘No,’ he ducks his head a little with an embarrassed smile. ‘Ballet.’

‘Wow,’ her short laugh sounds like an old dog barking. ‘Wouldn’t peg you as one of them fancy ones out there,’ she points at the exit where, outside in the blinding sunshine, the imposing building of the Royal Opera House dominates the buzzing world of Covent Garden.

Bin knows exactly what she means and nods. ‘Yeah. Royal Ballet.’

‘Good grief, no wonder you are so skinny. I bet they don’t feed you enough there.’

Bin laughs. ‘That’s not true. We need to eat, otherwise we wouldn’t be strong enough to dance all day.’

‘Sure. Like you did today,’ she eyes him sternly.

He feels like back in school again. ‘I just forgot.’

No need to mention that he is on a diet for the audition next month. People wouldn’t understand.

‘Well, don’t forget next time, alright? I am busy as it is, don’t need fainting boys slowing down the traffic around here.’

Despite the harshness of the words, her face breaks into a smile. ‘Make sure you eat something when you get home, son.’

He smiles gratefully. ‘Thank you, I will. Sorry for causing trouble. It was the heat.’

The woman shrugs lightly. ‘I guess we shouldn’t grumble. This is the only summer we’re gonna get. It’s supposed to be raining again next week.’

She opens the wheelchair access gate and waves him through. ‘And you were not taking a mickey? If I went to see one of them posh ballets at the Opera House, would you really be there?’

‘Yeah, I would,’ he laughs a little as he presses his Oyster card against the reader. ‘Go one day if you don’t believe me.’

‘Nah,’ she slaps his shoulder, the barking laugh carefree, despite the heat and long hours of her shift still ahead. ‘I’m alright. I’m more into reggae and jazz. Take care of yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ he throws her one last smile over his shoulder. ‘I will.’

She doesn’t smile back because another customer approaches her, an older lady, frail and looking harassed, struggling with a sizeable shopping bag.

Bin turns around and lets the escalator take him deeper, into the suffocating heat.

……………………………

Waiting for his train on a crowded platform, he chugs some more water, hoping he will survive the short journey. Sometimes he carries snacks in his bag but, as luck would have it, he ate the last cereal bar yesterday and now the only thing left to do is to wait.

The train hurtles into the station, the whoosh of hot air preceding it like a tidal wave from hell.

Bin keeps his head down and waits patiently until a steady stream of people leaves the carriage. The moment the last passenger exits through the door, it’s dog eat dog.

(Not openly, no – as a rule, the London crowd is a polite bunch – but everyone streams in as quickly as they can and look around for somewhere to sit. If you hesitate, you lose and will spend the journey squashed like a sardine amongst other unfortunate souls who were as slow as you.)

There are no old people around him so Bin doesn’t feel bad about grabbing a seat. Now the crucial thing is not to fall asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time to wake up from a slumber, finding himself somewhere way past his destination, and he only has to go three stops before he needs to change to Northern Line so he does his best to keep his eyes open.

After leaving the carriage at King’s Cross, he is almost in a trance, the wave of people grabbing him and carrying him forward like a wave. Bin knows better than to fight it.

The luck deserts him the second time round and he needs to stand, people around him looking almost as dead as he feels.

When he reaches Old Street, he can barely wait to be outside, hurrying past shuffling commuters and joining the impatient souls on the escalators who keep to the right and walk briskly, bypassing those on the left who simply let themselves being carried up, faces unmoving in the hot air.

Outside, the temperature hasn’t started dropping yet but the soft breeze that ruffles his sweaty hair makes it more bearable somehow and he greedily inhales a lungful of air, grateful for small mercies.

His legs carry him on autopilot, weaving through the crowd, the pavement busy but mercifully less so then the hoards that crowd Covent Garden.

(They say horses can feel when they start heading home and they perk up, no matter how tired they are. Bin is not sure if it’s true but right now, in this moment, he is inclined to believe it.)

Finally home.

Or maybe not quite home - the converted Victorian warehouses around him, with their nice, renovated facades and vertigo-inducing rents, still manage to infuse him with a sense of awe. Even after three years of living in one of them, he still feels like an impostor amongst the affluent artsy freelancers and media-types of Shoreditch.

He did try to talk to Minhyuk about it, how he felt bad about living off Dongmin’s charity - he would never be able to afford to pay the market rent around here – but his best friend just laughed and patted his shoulder, stop stressing, Binnie, Dongmin is glad to have someone around who actually knows good kimchi when they see it, you know, the feel of home and all that. It's not just about the money.

Minhyuk is probably right – Bin knows his best friend tells things as they are – so he stays, sharing a bedroom with Minhyuk in Dongmin’s lofty apartment in Leonard Street, with its high ceilings and original sash windows, the exposed brickwork a reminder that more than a hundred years ago this space used to be a furniture warehouse, full of sawdust and beautiful hand-made chests of drawers and wardrobes, pieces of art lovingly crafted, unlike the mass-produced cheap stuff that the average struggling Londoner now buys in IKEA on Sunday morning.

His shoulders sag in relief as he sticks the key into the lock.

‘Hey, Binnie.’

Dongmin emerges, bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. He has a tea towel slung over his shoulder – no t-shirt on - and a smell of freshly ground coffee is wafting from the kitchen behind him.

Three years ago, the sight of Dongmin like this - too much naked skin, messed-up hair and a bright smile - would have sent Bin into cardiac arrest.

He remembers those days, when he was new in London, when the homesickness was still a fresh, ever-present stinging pain in his chest, especially at night. When a simple look at something that reminded him of home could send him spiralling into a bout of self-pity that would last for days.

Dongmin was a welcome distraction then, a childhood friend of Minhyuk, a boy born with silver spoon in his mouth who, despite having it all back in Seoul – rich parents, a successful career as a model - had fled to the other side of the world to be free.

‘You home, Min?’

Dongmin returns to the kitchen.

‘Yeah,’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘Someone has messed up and the wrong batch of clothes arrived at the location today. The shoot had to be postponed. Heads will be rolling for this one I guess.’

‘Oh. That sucks.’

‘I’ll still get paid for turning up, just not that many hours.’ Dongmin doesn’t sound particularly concerned and turns up in the living room with a plate heaped with something that looks suspiciously healthy for Bin’s taste.

‘I’ve made way too much, do you guys want some? It will wilt otherwise.’

Bin knows Dongmin made too much on purpose; he knows this is Dongmin’s way of supplementing their meagre salaries as ballet dancers, the subtlety of it almost untraceable and not too humiliating, at least not outwardly.

Although a part of him bristles at the idea, he plays along. He likes Dongmin and respects the bond him and Minhyuk have, the childhood memories, the years of knowing each other – a thread that connects them both to Korea. To swallow his pride from time to time is a small price to pay for keeping Minhyuk happy.

So he nods amiably and eyes the salad; even if it looks disappointingly healthy it would not be wise to be picky right now, charity or not. This is food, made by someone else and ready to be eaten, and he is almost collapsing from hunger.

‘I’ll have some, thanks.’

However, hungry or not, he empties his dance bag and loads the washing machine first. The laundry basket wedged in the corner of his and Minhyuk’s shared bedroom has been overflowing with their sweaty dance gear for almost a week and is now starting to emit a rather musty smell. He knows Minhyuk would remember to do it but this is Bin’s short day and he doesn’t mind.

Washing machine humming quietly in the little storage room behind the kitchen, he closes the door after him and finally eyes the salad that sits in a big bowl on the counter.

He hast to give it to Dongmin – the man can work wonders with boring ingredients. A nice baguette would, of course, make everything taste better but Bin knows that unless he buys it, there will be no bread in the house. Minhyuk has been living on lean protein, steamed vegetables and the occasional bowl of rice since they met in a ballet school in Seoul seven years ago. And Dongmin, since becoming a runway model, not only a face for magazine shoots, is constantly battling his ravenous appetite, sweet tooth and the tendency to put on weight on his hips and ass - and therefore does his best to keep temptations away.

(Not that he would admit it freely but Bin loves Dongmin’s ass, or what’s left of it by now. He vaguely remembers telling Dongmin his butt was a piece of art and how it should be in a museum – but the memory is hazy, dimmed by three years that have passed since then, alcohol he drank that night and the high from being in Dongmin’s bed and holding that masterpiece in his hands. He can still recall the way Dongmin’s face flushed and transformed into something vulnerable, sweetly grateful. They all have their hang-ups; Bin’s is the constant weight in his chest at the end of the month when money is getting tight. Dongmin’s is the way he sees his body, his working tool but also something he hates on bad days.)

Tearing his mind from Dongmin’s assets, Bin loads his plate full and adds some crumbs of feta cheese on top. Protein and fat – he will burn it off tomorrow.

He pads to the sofa and sinks into the soft cushions, the tiredness enveloping him like a soft fog.

Dongmin is nowhere to be seen, an empty plate on the coffee table the only witness to his presence in the room only minutes ago.

Bin chews on the salad, arm so heavy he almost doesn’t bother to finish. He can barely reach the low table to put the empty plate on and immediately curls on the sofa, eyes falling shut.

‘I'm going out, Binnie.’

He startles and finds himself looking into Dongmin’s eyes. Dongmin looks expensive, dressed in something that has probably cost more than Bin’s monthly salary – or, equally, it might be one of Dongmin’s finds, discovered in posh charity shops he likes to frequent. Bin can never tell; on Dongmin, everything looks equally stunning.

‘Don’t lock me out, guys, ok?’

There is a massive security lock on the main door, one that can be operated not only from the outside but from the inside as well. In his early days in London, on his own overnight for the first time - with Dongmin out and Minhyuk away for the weekend, visiting a friend in Bristol – Bin carefully locked the door and went to sleep, feeling a little uneasy in the big, cavernous space.

When he met Dongmin the next morning, dishevelled and with black circles under his eyes, he smirked a little at first, suspecting a wild night. His smile fell of his face when Dongmin rolled his eyes and barely answered his question about the evening.

‘Yeah, it was fucking great. You locked me out, you moron. I couldn’t get in. Tried to ring you but you slept like a log.’

To this day, Bin remembers the mortification. The way he wished for the earth to swallow him whole. He asked Dongmin where he had slept that night and the other refused to answer, merely mumbling something about calling a friend and finally softening and smiling at Bin – don’t worry, Binnie, stop looking so guilty, I’m not angry, there are always beds in London where I’m welcome.

Dongmin has many friends. Bin is not sure how deep these friendships go, it’s a stream of faces he encounters at parties Dongmin throws at his place with a slightly terrifying frequency, some reoccurring, some never to be seen again.

He has also learned not to question the stream of people that disappear behind the closed door of Dongmin’s bedroom after almost every one of those parties. They come and go, some making more than one appearance - but never enough for Bin to have time to learn their names.

‘I don’t do love,’ Dongmin said simply, back at the very beginning, when Bin, half-horrified, half-fascinated, asked him about it. ‘I never promise anything - no big feelings, no strings attached – just a great night.’

Bin knows better than to question that – not after he became one of those nights himself. Several, to be precise. He never questions anything because, three years ago, he was the one who made the first move. Because Dongmin was hot and to Bin, he felt like home. Because he made him less lonely during those first months in London when even Minhyuk’s friendship wasn’t enough to dispel the terrible homesickness that was filling Bin’s chest every night.

‘Binnie?’

He blinks, realising he must have dozed off while Dongmin was talking.

‘Yeah?’ he does his best to straighten up and pay attention.

‘I’m going. Don’t forget to leave the door unlocked.’

‘Jeez,’ Bin mumbles and closes his eyes. ‘It was three years ago, Min.’

Already on his way out, Dongmin laughs, his voice like treacle, smooth and deep. ‘I know it was, but I like how you squirm every time I mention it.’

Bin curls up on the sofa again. ‘Ass.’

‘Shut up,’ Dongmin calls from the hallway. 'You don’t have any to speak of so leave mine alone.’

Bin chuckles and lets his eyes fall shut.

……………………………

At the sound of a key in the lock, Bin startles. For a moment, he thinks it must be Dongmin returning home but the room is still bright, the sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Minhyuk walks in, the sweaty hair plastered on his forehead, a big bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Hey.’

Bin scrambles up to sit, feeling almost embarrassed because of how ridiculously pleased he is to see Minhyuk. ‘How was the class?’

‘It went fine. Some hopeless cases but a couple of people are actually making progress.’

Minhyuk’s voice is soft; the tiredness around the edges of his words makes him speak quieter, slower.

Although Royal Ballet does not perform on Tuesday nights, Minhyuk teaches an adult ballet class in the local gym. It’s a new gig he only started three months ago and it surprises Bin how lonely he feels at home when Minhyuk is not there.

Minhyuk sits down next to him; Bin can almost feel the bone-deep tiredness himself. He moves to the side to make more space and Minhyuk groans softly as he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

‘Is Min home?’

‘No, he went out.’

They sit on the sofa in silence. It’s comforting; Minhyuk’s presence is like a soothing blanket, even if he doesn’t say anything, even if he just sits next to Bin, or when he starts sorting through his dance bag.

‘You hungry, Hyuk? Min has made some salad. It’s in the kitchen, he said we could finish it if we wanted to.’

‘Hm.’

By now, Minhyuk has finished rummaging in the contents of his bag and has sunk into the cushions again. He doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. The damp hair at his temples is sticking out in all directions and, for a moment, Bin feels an inexplicable urge to smooth it down.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to seal for organising the fest!


End file.
